Maggie's Place
by Annulardragon
Summary: After a particularly hard job the three Saints like to drop in on the daughter of one of Pa's old business associates, Margret McPhee. Maggie contemplates how she came to know them, and what they mean to her.Rated for language, implied sex Please review!


Maggie's Place

_After a particularly hard job the three Saints like to drop in on the daughter of one of Pa's old business associates, Margret McPhee. Maggie contemplates how she came to know them, and what they mean to her._ (Rating for language and implied sex)

Author's note: First BDS fic. Enjoy and Review. My work normally isn't this choppy.

Disclaimer: Only Maggie belongs to me, if you would like to use Maggie in your fic please let me know. I would be flattered. The three Saints belong to their creator. I make no money from this or any of the derived works.

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They came as they always did, in the middle of the night. They never called, never wrote. Their arrivals were heralded only by the slamming of her back door and the soft curses in the living room. It would have woken her if she had not been staring at the ceiling in the darkness for the last half an hour. They rarely surprised her.

She dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs. They had already settled, two on the couch and the old man in the chair by the fireplace. The dark stains told a chilling tale and she turned into the kitchen to boil water and find the bandages.

"Sorry to do this too ya Maggie."

"Murphy, when I want an apology from you I'll ask for it. Now sit up and quit bleeding on my couch.

In the secrecy of the kitchen she lets out a breath she's been holding for the last four months. They are safe, they are here. Her prayers have been answered again.

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Papa Bram had been a friend of her own father, once, long ago. She had hazy memories of the man with the lilting accent talking with Papa, joking with her brothers and bouncing her on his knee, praising her freckles and curls and saying what a good match she'd make one of his boys one day. She had been only 3 then.

And then one night, long after her own mama and papa and brothers were long gone, he had returned, with the two matched ruffians at his back asking if they might stay the night. They stayed four whole, glorious days. They had been polite and kind from the start. Flirting with her until she blushed, praising her cooking, helping with the farm chores unasked. It had been a long time since she had had visitors. When they left she packed them off with hampers of food and a promise to come by any time they wanted.

She's lost count of the times they've dropped in since.

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She had never quite made it back to bed. By the time they were all patched up the sun was rising and chickens were hungry and everyone was too awake to sleep. She sent the twins out to feed the chickens and let the sheep out and she made breakfast. Papa Bram had already made a pot of tea and was brooding over his mug listening to the radio news. She ran water to wash the strawberries and to drown out the droning voice. She didn't need the reminder of who were currently chasing her sheep across the pasture. She sighed and turned the gas griddle on; they are always ravenous the first day.

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Her father's business was no secret to a little girl with sharp ears. And Papa Bram's name was always spoken with respect. It wasn't much of a leap of logic to connect the news reports to her midnight visitors. Men doing the Lord's work were always welcome at her house.

To her they were never the violent, frightening men talked about on the TV news shows. As they sat down to breakfast it was hard to remember that they were cold-blooded killers, hunted fugitives and fast approaching the top of the FBI most wanted list. For her it is Papa Bram and the boys. Her boys.

They were both beautiful to her eyes; dark and dangerous, laughing and joking. When they were wrestling in the grass or hanging out the laundry, they delighted her in every way possible. And right now they were decimating the towering piles of breakfast. She was going to have to go out the store again before lunch.

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She had -behaved-. She knew better than to step between those brothers. No good could come of more than joking with them. So joked she had. They reminded her vaguely of her own long lost older brothers, and she had treated them as such; egging them on, allowing herself to be drawn into wrestling matches, and drinking them under the table.

She flirted away the days and slept alone.

That had lasted their first two visits.

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Murphy had charmed her first to be sure, and even stolen the first kiss but it had been Connor who broke her resolve. He had been quietly brooding and chopping her firewood one autumn afternoon when she brought him a glass of water. The wood chips had been rough, but he was gentle.

She was still cursing herself for it the next night while doing the dishes when Murphy slipped into the kitchen and stole the dishtowel, flicking it around to smack her arse.

"God damn-it!" She yelled and half-tossed, half-hurled him a still dripping colander "Gonna give me fuckin' grief the least you can do is help." Within ten minutes he was kissing her again, first soothing away her anger, then full of heat and wanting, arms twining around her, pulling at the hem of her shirt.

It drove her into frustrated tears.

"Shh, shh, little magpie. I didn't mean to frighten ye." the irishman whispered in her hair, pulling her close. "Did Conner do somethin to shake you so? You been quiet since you two went out back yesterday. I know my brother can confuse girls awful sometimes but if he made you sad I'll trounce him for ya."

"No no. He was nothing but gentlemanly..." she looked up suddenly "You knew?"

"Course I knew. He fuckin' glowed coming in the house. No honest work on earth makes my brother smile that broad." He laughed.

"Then what the hell was that just now?"

"You didn't seem to be objectin. And I can't be letting him be having all the fun. Gotta show you what a real man is like." She laughed at that. A laugh that disolved back into angy tears. "Damnit. I won't be your prize to fight over. S'is stupid. You're both too dear... you gimme enough of a heartache commin here all torn up and dying. There ain't no way I can choose between ya two stupid oafs."

"Hey, hey! Ain't nobody askin' you to choose. You're not makin' any promises here." He told her softly. "If you wanna be generous with your heart as well as your food and your house we ain't gonna complain. We're inconstant as the wind and we can't make you a good promise between us but we're tired and lonely and wanting. And we'll be good to you when we can. We ain't met a woman yet can hold a candle to our Maggie."

"Murphy, what the hell are you gonna do the day you can't get your way with flattery?" She was back to laughing again. The absurdity of it all numbing her brain.

"Fuck, I don't know. S'never happened." He grinned back.

"You do this to all the girls?, Ambush 'em like this?"  
"Hell no, never had a girl who put up with us this long. Either they jump us both the first night and we kick 'em out in the morning or they pick one and then get all pissed that they don't get all the attention."  
She shook her head again.  
"Pair of fuckin' crazies. that's what you are. You I'm not gonna wake up to him decking you tomorrow?"  
"Can't say. He's a loose cannon when he can't find his socks."  
"Fuckin' crazies..." She shook her head slowly disbelieving but he kissed her again then; softly and achingly sweet. The dishes went half-finished that night.

The next morning Connor helped her with the morning chores. And the he helped her up into the hayloft.

And that was how it had begun.

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There is a part of them she will never touch.

When they pray, when they clean their guns, when they listen to the news at night, when she hears them talking quietly in the kitchen after she has gone to bed. They are the Saints then, not her boys. She wonders if someday, in the distant future, the men will come and leave the saints elsewhere. She likes to pretend sometimes that it has already happened. That tomorrow will be just like today.

But tomorrow she will find them with disassembled firearms spread out over her kitchen table, getting grease and solvent and fouling all over her tablecloth, and she will know that they are Saints once more.

Tomorrow morning, early they will leave, she knows not where they will go, but she will pray for them.

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